


Out of Rhythm

by chaosandmemory



Series: Nose to the Wind [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU: Always a werewolf, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosandmemory/pseuds/chaosandmemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky comforts Steve through the pain of his body yet again failing to change into his wolf form.  But when Bucky is at war, Steve has no one.  For my Hurt/Comfort Bingo "Cuddling" square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's the familiar rumble thrumming through their pack bond that brings Bucky to the alley; the sound of fists and scents of blood familiar and strange hurry his feet along. Three sour-smelling hulking brutes have Steve backed into a corner, but for once not all the blood is his. Bucky bites back the snarl that rises up. These idiots aren't kin and a growl that would send wolfkin running will do no more than confuse the skinlocked. 

Time to add his own fists to the fight.

A few well placed blows and his disregard for hiding his feral satisfaction at making them bleed convince all three that the fight isn't worth it. He waits until he's sure they're gone before glancing at Steve. Bruises, blood, and a limp, but no scent of acrid sour suggesting deeper injuries within. Maybe a busted knuckle, given the way he is shaking out his hand from a truly impressive kidney punch to one of the idiots they'd sent running. Turning your back on Steve is never a good idea, no matter how much he might look like a scrawny choirboy.

Bucky shakes his head and heaves his best put-upon sigh. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Steve glares, his hands balled into fists. His deliberate exhale holds more than a little growl. He flicks a glance sideways at Bucky then stares resolutely a half step in front of them. "They were disrespecting a girl."

"Of course they were."

"I couldn't—"

"You could but you won't."

"Bucky."

He rolls his eyes and drops his arm over Steve's shoulders. "I'm sure they had it coming."

Five blocks to home and Steve scowls the entire way, shoulders hunched and the line between his eyebrows carved deep. Bucky keeps up a deliberately casual patter, bits of his day mixed with neighborhood gossip, and scans the streets for any hint of trouble. Mood Steve is in, someone would get seriously hurt if he finds anyone else to tangle with. Probably Steve.

Bucky steers Steve through the crowds and friendly conversations with neighbors and up three flights of worn stairs without incident, then locks the door behind them to keep it that way.

"Idiot," Bucky mutters, not sure if he's talking to himself or his stubborn as a mule best friend. With a wry smile, he shakes his head at Steve, who is standing in the middle of the room, fists half raised and fight tensing every fiber of his body.

Steve's retort is cut off by a gasp and a spike of pain echoes through the back of Bucky's head. Steve doubles over, clutching his chest, and hisses a swear through clenched teeth. Bucky's nostrils flare as he catches the increase in wolf-scent layered in pain and leaps forward to catch Steve before he topples, all but manhandling him onto the couch. Steve snarls something indecipherable but doesn't resist.

"Shit." Bucky rubs the back of his head. Increased irritability, shorter fuse: He should have caught the signs. Not that Steve ever has a problem picking a fight with someone three times his size, but when changsick is about to come calling, likely becomes certainty. It's early this year, but it's not like Steve's ever done anything on schedule.

Steve fists clench and his knees draw up, a whine escaping through clenched teeth Bucky drops a hand to Steve's head, fingers carding through hair. "Go to bed, Steve."

Steve pries his eyes open to stare him down.

"You'd rather do it here and bash your head open on the floor when you fall off the couch?" Bucky grinds his teeth. "I will pick you up and carry you in there if you don't listen to sense for once in your life."

Steve scowls, fingers twitching, but finally shoves to his feet, stalking into the tiny bedroom mostly under his own power and thumping onto his bed with a huff. Once Bucky's sure Steve's settled, he ducks into the kitchen for water and food, bringing both into the bedroom and setting them on the windowsill within easy reach of Steve's bed.

Bucky perches on his bed and wavers a moment, watching Steve, but there is nothing he can do for Steve with two hands that he can't with four paws. Because Steve's an idiot—pride, maybe, or more likely sheer ornery cussedness—he rarely accepts comfort from Bucky in in human shape. The wolf, though, overrides Steve's stubborn and pack instinct takes over, and that Bucky will exploit for all he's worth.

Coming out the other side of this is all on Steve.

Werewolves were built to change. If they don't, their bodies make the choice for them. If they can't… well, pack elders—blowhards all—claim that the death that inevitably follows is preferable. Steve's been defiantly proving them wrong for years, throwing in their face his survival through every failed attempt his body makes to shift. Pack elders just tut and shake their heads and say it's only a matter of when.

Bucky refuses to fucking believe them. Steve'll beat this.

Bucky strips down and summons fur, dropping to four legs before Steve can protest. Minutes of rippling pain-pleasure and he shakes out his fur, leaping up to the bed and shoving Steve over until he can stretch out.

"You're gonna be my teddy bear?" Despite Steve's sour tone, he plunges fingers into Bucky's fur, fingernails scraping though to the skin at the back of his neck. Bucky huffs and flicks his ears back, leaning into the touch. _You're a dumbass punk_ doesn't communicate as clearly without the words, but given Steve's unimpressed raised eyebrow, he gets the idea. Steve keeps running his hands through Bucky's fur, though, the bitter anger of his scent mellowing into almost contentment.

But it doesn't last. Pain wracks Steve's body and twists his spine, the worst spasm yet, and his fingers tighten on Bucky's neck. He smells more wolf than anyone still in human skin should, but human stays stubbornly stretched over his bones, refusing to give way to fur no matter how his joints crackle and groan. Bucky shoves his face against Steve's chest, tethering him, breathing slow and deep to give Steve a rhythm to match. When Steve's lungs continue to seize, Bucky nips his chin, licks his face until Steve pushes out enough a breath to sit up and shove him away.

"You shouldn't have to do this," Steve mutters as he leans forward, glaring at his knees as he sucks air into his lungs.

Bucky's ears flatten and he bites down on Steve's hand hard enough to leave dents. When Steve yelps and jerks back, Bucky shoulders Steve prone, sitting on him—careful to distribute his weight on Steve's legs and arm and away from his chest—and snaps his teeth inches from Steve's nose. Steve growls and snaps back, then lets his head fall back with a thump.

 _Pack_ , Bucky pushes through the bond, underlain with all the emotions of what that meant to him. _Mine_.

"You're a jerk," Steve mutters, flicking Bucky's muzzle. Bucky sneezes at the sting, then licks Steve's fingers and shoves his head under Steve's palm. Steve smiles a little, gently pulling at Bucky's ears, but the expression turns cynical fast. "I hate this."

Bucky sighs and lays his head next to Steve's. _You and me both, buddy_. Someday Steve's body will get with the program and figure out how to trade two feet for four. Someday Bucky will be able to run through the dark streets with Steve at his side, sharpen hunting skills on the rats and pigeons that also make the city their home. Maybe make the trek to Central Park, or even one of the more rural places upstate so they can chase each other in the shadows of the trees.

Someday Bucky will be able to get through the year without increasingly growing panic that Steve will lose his fight with outstubborning the world.

Eyes on Steve, Bucky flops over on the bed and settles in to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to post this chapter as a second story, but decided it worked better as a second chapter.

It's been a weird evening.

The stage lights are bright enough to hurt his head and the noise is prickling against his skin. His entire performance—timing honed and recitation automatic by now—goes off without a hitch but he feels out of step with the rest of the troupe. When the crowd surges forward afterward, enthusiastic to meet their so-called hero, he has to work harder than normal not to flinch, not to snap, not to run and hide. Even the short walk back to the hotel where he is housed leaves him on edge, scanning the deserted streets with muscles tensed for a fight.

The last, more than anything, is what clues him in. It has been less than seven months since his body last tried to shift skins and everything feels askew from what he would expect, but Erskine's serum, made for a human, was bound to play havoc with this half of Steve's nature.

By the time Steve slips into the hotel lobby, his head is down and his shoulders hunched. He takes the stairs at a run.

He's in the hall outside his room when the first rush of pain shivers across his skin. He gulps a deep breath and pushes the pain down, submerged into muscle and sinew. He locks the door behind him, sinks to the floor with the wood at his back, and bends his forehead to his knees.

He's never had to do this alone. For all that he tried to chase Bucky off every time his body betrayed him, he never succeeded. But this time Bucky is an ocean away, barely a whisper in his head. Steve clamps down on the temptation to grasp at that shadow of Bucky he can almost feel. Bucky has more important things to worry about.

Steve shudders and shucks off his clothes, frantic to rid his oversensitive skin of the abrasive texture, to free his limbs of confinement that is suddenly overwhelming. Even the cool air is almost too much as the pain ripples out again, currents of agony jittering from bone to muscle to skin. He pants and closes his eyes, giving in to the familiar pain of being remade. He bites down a howl as his muscles knot and his back arches, his bones creaking as the muscles twist. Everything tenses and shifts and burns in an agony of wrong.

The pain subsides for a moment, leaving him with the ache of skin stretched too thin and muscle stretched too tight. He gulps air while he has the chance, staring down at his hands curled into the carpet. The bones look longer, somehow, the hand narrower. Puzzled, he tries to curl his fingers—

The agony of burning stretching breaking sideswipes him and drags him under, before abruptly receding and leaving him prone and panting.

Although he's never been more exhausted, the pain is gone. Steve sits up and nearly falls over. His tail twists underneath him and he yelps, rolling to free it. His paws scrabble for a moment at the carpet, then he flops back over, staring.

Paws, tipped by dark claws. And—he gives an experimental wag and his tail brushes against the floor—tail. He blinks eyes set wrong in his head and looks around at a room flattened in sight but richer in scent, twitches his skin to settle his fur in place, and pushes to his feet. All four of them.

His laughter is a quickly-muffled howl.

His first lap around the room is unsteady, the second is confident, the third is a run that ends in his tripping over his feet with an undignified yip. He bounds up and shakes himself off. Stretches, extending his body, and runs laps back and forth, pushing his elongated nose into every space it'll fit and glorying in the increased wealth of scent. He eyes the door, then the window, but his room is on the third floor in a city where he doesn't know the shadows and hiding spaces a wolf can use to slip unnoticed from street to street. Besides, it doesn't seem right to celebrate this alone.

He's going overseas next week to perform in London and then as-yet-unannounced locations on the front. Maybe to where Bucky's unit is stationed, if he's lucky.

He jumps on the bed and settles into a sprawl with his nose on his legs and his tail rhythmically thumping against the bed. Bucky's out there, a whisper on the other side of the world. Steve points his nose in that direction and impatiently waits.


End file.
